


Magnetised

by stillinmycocoon



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animal Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 05:11:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17636561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillinmycocoon/pseuds/stillinmycocoon
Summary: Newt is a magnet for trouble. After returning a Welsh green to Caernarfon, the team find themselves holed up in a muggle pub for the evening. To Percy’s annoyance, one of Theseus’ old friends arrives and begins to flirt with Newt. However, it later becomes clear that the pair have a past and this man won’t take no for an answer.





	Magnetised

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I started working on last year, but it has exploded today and turned into an entirely different beast. I'm not sure whether I'll be writing a continuation, but I appreciate any feedback!

The hour was late and the night cold by the time they reached The Green Dragon. Shoving and pushing they had managed to claim a small table in a dark corner, and then wrestled to occupy a few yards of the sticky bar. Theseus, drunk on his brother’s company, had insisted on the tavern, snickering about the poetry of his choice.

When an adolescent and appropriately grumpy Welsh Green had washed ashore in New Hampshire, the local authorities had known exactly what to do; dump their problem on MACUSA’s door step. Percival Graves bristled at the memory or the halfwit mayor who had stutteringly fire-called him three days ago. Newt, however, delighted as always at the opportunity to befriend a beast, had jumped at the chance to visit the alien dragon, wrapping his ever-present periwinkle coat around his pyjama clad shoulders and leaping into the flames with a shoddily flung handful of powder. Weeks earlier when Graves had first encountered “Flooing” he had lamented aloud on the laziness of the European wizards who not only dispensed with wandless magic, but now with apparating too. His bemused houseguest had merely smiled, crumbling up toast to feed to the bowtruckle perched on his shoulder.

At the behest of Piquery, in her infinite wisdom, MACUSA had called in their Ministry counter-parts to prevent an international incident. The arrival of Theseus Scamander, international coordinator of mayhem, did, in Percy’s humble opinion lessen the odds of a peaceful operation, but the delight of the Scamander boys in sharing responsibility had allayed his fears, somewhat.

The operation, astoundingly, had run smoothly, and after a two day flight via St Helena’s, the retinue of wizards, brooms and dragon had landed safely in Carnarvon. Even the stoic Director could appreciate the trumpeting merriment of the reunited mother Green upon seeing her bashful, snuffling offspring. None had commented on the suspiciously wet eyes of the youngest Scamander. As the fire-breathing family curled up inside the walls of the crumbling castle, Theseus had called for celebrations and merriment and insisted on the venue.

It was crawling with No-Mags and Percival sat stiffly, coat still buttoned, peering out at the bar over his upturned collar. Wilkerson and Prewitt, two long-serving colleagues in the Bureau of International Cooperation, had been giddily bouncing about, inspecting the bathrooms, their fellow patrons and the “dart” board. The British contingent meanwhile, sat in their shirt sleeves, lounging back in their chairs and ignoring boisterous No-Mags and “lectrissity”. While the Head of Magical Security had always endeavoured to protect the non-magical community, he felt cornered in their presence, and when Theseus leapt up to embrace newcomers, felt some semblance of relief. Safety in numbers – that’s what Strom Hartlee, his highly decorated training master, had drilled into him as a fresh recruit.

\------

Newt felt warm. His face radiated heat, cheeks ruddy from Atlantic air and the dried tracks of his happy tears. Watching Eric - a plump and nervous little Green – trumpeting his relief upon meeting his mother on the outskirts of Carnarvon had filled him with an unexpected joy, releasing the anxiety he had felt watching the distressed mite make his desperate flight home.

New York had been quite the adventure; surrounded by new friends and openly working with his creatures for MACUSA’s fledgling beasts department (“Exploratory, Scamander, exploratory!”), he had experienced true friendship for the first time in over a decade.

Though he’d always had his brother to turn to, and his creatures, of course, the support given to him by the Goldstein sisters had warmed the cockles of his heart. Sweet Jacob, so trusting and kind, had remembered everything in time, and Newt had become a regular visitor at the bakery – nundu meringues had come closer to plumping up his slender frame than any treat from Honeydukes ever could. Even along the dark halls of Congress, he was met with smiles and greetings, rather than disdain and whispers. His landlord’s reputation, no doubt, preceded him.

Percy – the real Percy – had been a revelation. Free from the shackles of Grindelwald, Newt had come to know the true nature of the Auror. Just days after waking in the hospital, Percival had begged an audience with the magizoologist, enquiring after his wartime comrade, Theseus, and offering Newt a debt of gratitude. Despite repeated, blushing denials, Newt had accepted the Director’s offer to stay in the colonies and improve the situation of magical creatures. As strength had returned to the Director, so too had his iron will, and Newt’s plan to reside above the bakery had been derailed within days. Instead, he found himself and his menagerie happily ensconced within a spare suite at the Graves Mansion. While Newt did not consider himself an expert in the matter, he believed another friendship was blossoming over sleepy breakfasts and long, evening debates; though perhaps not – the suggestion, after all, had been met with much mirth when he voiced it to Queenie.

Merrily, he nuzzled into his brother’s side; Theseus was in his element. The wizards around them laughed heartily as he spun tales from the war, one hand tugging his sibling closer and the other flitting animatedly. Newt blushed to hear his name. “He’s exaggerating,” he explained, batting at his brother’s knee.

“It’s true!” the other Scamander insisted with a wide grin. He gulped the last of his pint, amber glinting in the dim light of the tavern. “The Kriegsministerium horntails were advancing and the battle was about to be lost. We thought we were about to come to a sticky end. My baby brother-” Newt slapped the strong thigh next to his own, once more. He wasn’t a baby! “Dashes forward through the mud and the blood. I thought my heart was going to explode. And then he’s trilling at the top of his lungs, dodging curses left-right-and-centre, and grabbing at their tail spines – and the horntails? They’re slumping onto their snouts!”

Their compatriots cheered at the well-known story while their MACUSA counterparts gasped. “You grabbed a horntail by the tail? Like in the nursery rhyme?” spluttered Leguziamo.

“Mothers nip the hind spines of their young to soothe them,” Newt shrugged, gazing down into his empty glass. “Everyone knows that.”

“Nobody knows that,” grumbled his landlord with a quirk of his lips. Once so imposing, Newt had witnessed the man mellow over the past months.

Newt shook his head softly. “I’m going up to the bar. ‘Nother pint, Thee? Anyone else?” Shaking off offers of help, the younger Scamander extricated himself from his brother’s grasp as he began his next – potentially embarrassing – story of Newt’s supposed exploits.

\-----

Percival watched as the familiar coat mingled with the dirty, waxed capes of the working men who leaned four-thick ahead of the bar.

Some of the men, chortling to each other with their dancing accents, stood in faded shirt-sleeves. Others, fresh from the infernal “industreel” factories that dotted the valleys, clutched their pint glasses with grease-stained hands. Newt – so clean with his bright coat, soft features and bouncing curls – attracted many a puzzled glance from the clientele and whispers of “gentleman” floated on the gin-soaked air. Within moments of reaching the bar, his hand – nay, his whole arm – was being pumped by a ruddy-faced, cheery No-Mag with muddy boots.

The Auror found himself smiling as Newt – rather than pulling away from that dirty hand – let his mouth twist into a smile. Avoiding eye contact, as was his way, he began instead enquiring after the brown and white dog cowering at the foot of the bar. Moments later, the Englishman was on his knees in a puddle of ale, scratching floppy ears and knocking his forehead into the snout of the dog, shaking a hairy paw as he had shook a dirty hand. Over the roar of the crowd, Percival distinctly heard the Welshman’s lilt: “Oh, what’s occurring? What a queer gentleman you is.” Warming – smiling, even – Percival stood to join his lodger and meet the new beast.

As he rose, a body ploughed into him. Knocked back he reached for his wand at his waist, freezing as he remembered his predicament – a room full of influenced No-Mags.

“So sorry, old chum!” the stranger said, looking past him to Theseus. “Scamander!” he cried.

Theseus leapt up, knocking over his chair. “Atticus Forster-Hewes! What in Merlin’s beard brings you here, Att?” Prewitt made determined eyes at his colleague. “I mean, er, gosh and golly it’s good to see you!”

The newcomer, as tall as both Theseus and Percival, and – to the American’s consternation – slightly thicker, waved a hand and smiled charmingly. “Don’t mind the muggles, boys. They’ll be several jars in by now.” His accent was cut from a cloth even finer than the Scamander brothers, Percival noted. Blond hair grew past his ears and had been plastered down with some kind of potion, the parting severe and pale and just slightly off-centre.

Theseus dragged a stool clumsily from a nearby table and pushed “Att” down into it, reeling off introductions around the table and recapping the tale of the Green. “And Atticus, boy, we go years back! We were at Hogwarts together – why, when I first joined the Quidditch team, he was Gryffindor captain.”

Atticus nodded, “Spent many a happy summer’s day at the Scamander estate, throwing around the quaffle until the sun sunk beyond the stables.”

Theseus nodded eagerly. “And then inside for our first firewhiskeys! Friend, I always got so drunk when you were around.” The table laughed and Percival cleared his throat.

“And what was it that brings you to this fae forsaken hole, tonight?”

The blond met his eyes, unpleasantly, and opened his mouth to explain.

“Drinks!” proclaimed Newt happily, returning to the table with a tray and the damned dog bouncing around his feet. His smile slipped as he took in the table and, with it, the tray tipped forward.

The men exclaimed and made to leap up, but Percival was faster, his hands flying up to freeze the cascade of drinks in their place. The dog scampered away and the wizards, half way up, froze in their haste – Prewitt laughed, and Theseus clapped his hands once with a chuckle, while Leguziamo hissed and whipped his head around to survey the room. One No-Mag, red in the face, spilled cider at his feet, stood dumfounded and rubbed at his eyes with his fists. Hooting, Theseus quickly handed out glasses before anybody else could notice the floating tray.

“My Newt, you don’t change, do you?” said Atticus, a smile unfurling across his face. 

Stuttering and staring, Newt made no reply.

Theseus danced around the table to pull his brother to him. “To my dear brother, never changing!” He lifted his glass and the others toasted. They turned as the red-faced No-Mag staggered out of the pub. “And to my dear friend, Percy!” The Englishman raised a second toast, and contorted his face: “ _The fastest hand in the West._ ” He grinned into his brother’s hair and dropping the accent. “That’s what they cowmen say in the movies, right, Newt?”

Percival thought he could make out Newt’s lips form the shape of “cowboys”, but his eyes continued to stare at the newcomer.

“Come now, Theseus. This is a celebration! Let me get a few bottles of the good stuff.” The table cheered as the one time Quidditch captain cut through the crowd, pushing drunken Welshmen out of his way and returning with a bottle of liquor in each hand.

Theseus sat, as did Newt, the pair still joined by the elder’s arm. Percival laid a hand below Theseus’ on the periwinkle coat. “Are you alright?” His lodger raised his gaze, eyes shining brightly with what Percival feared may be guilt.

As their colleagues began debating the merits of firewhiskey over wingedgin, Theseus placed his glass down taking in his brother’s apparent misery. “Newt? Darling?”

“Move down will you, old boy? We have a lot to catch up on.” Clenching his teeth hard enough to break, Percival shifted away. “Cheer up, Newt!” Atticus cried, pouring three full glasses of brown liquid and proposing a toast.

McInnery was tugging on his elbow, wittering on about a coven of vampires in Boston. Ears ringing, Percival tried to focus, grasped to remember the latest decree on sires. The politics of vampire-wizard relations could be a nightmare.  “They’re saying it could be war!” McInnery insisted.

“Don’t look so excited,” Percival said with a grumble. “Do you know how many good wizards we lost last time we tried to take down a sire?”

“But-” The Auror glanced away. Newt hadn’t touched his glass, but was smiling fixedly and nodding. The other two had made good progress; generously, Atticus topped up Theseus’ glass, neglecting his own. “-you think so?”

Percival turned back to find his half of the table staring at him. “What?”

Time passed immeasurably, and Percival found himself sinking into a foul mood, jostled by the heaving crowd and embittered by tales of ever-emboldened creatures back home. Bloody Newt probably thought all a hunting vampire needed was a good fang scratch. He caught sight of Theseus stumbling to the bathroom and glanced over his shoulder; Atticus has taken over the elder Scamander’s role and hugged the younger to his chest – Percival couldn’t even make out his friend’s face as they whispered to each other.

He leapt up and made his way outside for a breath of fresh air. Rain lashed at his face, but he pulled his coat close and stumbled down the street, seething.  Why couldn’t he hold him? Why couldn’t he put his arm around Newt one evening, pull him towards him? Everybody said the English were emotionally incontinent, but Theseus adored his brother and even this school friend could paw at Newt without restriction. Calming himself, he stalked slowly back towards the Dragon.

Theseus had returned to the table, his glass full again. As Atticus disposed of the emptied bottle, Newt caught his eye and stood, almost as if he wanted to come towards him. Percival almost opened his arms. Instead, Newt shook his head, as if dazed, and turned towards the bathroom.

“A wonderful idea,” said Atticus a moment later, hauling himself up from the stool. “You can have your seat back, Graves.”

“Thanks,” he hissed, dropping down and ignoring the man’s departure. He turned. “Close friend?”

Theseus attempted to prop his chin up on a closed fist. “Once upon a time, yes, but it’s been years.” He fiddled with his tie. “I took Newt’s side after the fight. Didn’t speak much after that.” He sniffed and finished his drink. “Good to see the old boy, though. Water under the bridge and all that.”

Alert, Percival straightened. “What fight?”

“Hmm? Oh. Summer after I finished Hogwarts. Atticus came round and we mucked about in the garden. Long day in the sun. Went inside, had a few drinks and fell asleep.” Theseus squinted. “Don’t know where he slept. I fell asleep on the couch, but when I woke up I could hear Newt crying. He was waiting outside the parlour, on the stairs.” The British Auror waved a hand at his nose. “Had a bloody nose. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, and I was mad he hadn’t woken me. Eventually he said it was Atticus – I couldn’t believe Att would punch him! And he’d, he’d buggered off too. The weasel.”

“Why, Theseus? Why did he punch Newt?”

“Right, er, Newt was hugging this old kneasle, and the- it was like the kneasle was crying too. He was asking me to cast a healing charm, but I was still too drunk. Said Atticus had kicked the poor thing.” Theseus shrugged. “You do dumb stuff when you’re drinking, but I wrote and I told Att to stay away, told him that Newt loves those creatures and that it was only natural he would defend them.”

Percival could almost see it, could see a drunken young man stumbling over a small animal, kicking it to the side. Could imagine Newt’s rage – a young student denied his wand and turning to his fists.

“It’s been years though,” Theseus summarised. “Such luck! I suppose he works for the local magical council and heard about the dragon. Wanted to pop by and catch up with me.”

The Auror narrowed his eyes, slowly, purposefully. “Theseus. Why would he hear about a dragon escort and think of you?”

Theseus looked like he was about to fall unconscious, his head lolling closer to the table. “Theseus,” Percival said, giving him a shake.

Scamander smiled, “I don’know.” He was slurring. “Makes me think of Newt.” The respected Auror, the war hero and scourge of dark wizards across Europe, snuffled, snorted and fell asleep.

Percival eyed the empty glass, the bottle and stood.

\-----

He couldn’t breathe, he felt like he couldn’t breathe or see the faces in front of his own or hear a single word above the din of the tavern.

Newt threw himself into the crowd and towards the glass door marked “Gents”. The corridor was damp and he sucked in the air greedily. An excited bark rent the air, and he turned to see the Border Collie from the bar pushing her nose up against a second door. Newt jerked forward and through, bursting out into the alleyway.

Open-mouthed he breathed in deep and felt the rain on his face. He slumped down against the wall and the dog, warm and soft, curled up in his lap, licking his fingers gently and staring up with sad brown eyes.

_Why was he here?_

Newt wished he could claim not to have thought of Atticus Forster-Hewes for many years, but in truth, rarely a day passed without some ghost of the man materialising. An unexpected hand on his waist, a stranger’s eyes raking over his figure or a face too close to his own.

He had burned with shame as he dropped the tray; Percival coming to his aid, Percival who had been imprisoned, impersonated, but gave no impression of fear. He’d clung to his brother, to his shirt, his side, the smell of aftershave and hair lacquer, smiling grimly and letting their chit-chat flow over his head.

Theseus had been furious when he found Newt with a bloody nose all those years ago, had never spoken to Hewes again, yet here they were, fast friends once more. Frozen, the younger Scamander could not even sip at the drink in front of him; the elder though was gulping down spirits at an alarming rate. Stop, Newt had tried to whisper. And then Thee’d left, left him with…

Hewes had thrown an arm around him instantly, blocking him from the table and laying his other hand, large and heavy across his fluttering stomach. “You haven’t changed at all,” he whispered. “Still so beautiful, so small. Do you think I can still lift you up a-” The roaring in Newt’s ears had drowned out the words. He felt desperate. He wanted Theseus. He wanted Percy.

Percy! Desperately he called out in his mind. His figure loomed above then, dark and dangerous and leaving. Percy, he cried internally.

The wind carried the rain into Newt’s face, bringing him back to his senses. The cobbles were slick, the dog was whining.

“What a perfectly secluded hideaway.” Newt didn’t bother turning. The dog stood, front paws firm on the ground and growled, teeth bared. Atticus, blond hair dishevelled, stood above him and chuckled. The door behind him had disappeared; a smart piece of magic. “Do you remember how this ended last time?”

Like an echo, Newt heard the furious roar as the kneasle had bitten into a bare human calf and the yelp as it had been kicked clear across his bedroom, landing in a heap of fur. “Stop it,” he whispered, grabbing at the dog’s collar. “Go away.” The dog nipped at his fussing hands, and turned back towards his target. Newt petted her ears heavily, lifting her to face away and pushing her rump. He pointed violently along the alley, “Get!” She scuttled off, barking.

“Stand up.”

Shakily, Newt clambered to his feet. Hands on his collar hauled him upright. The other man pushed into his body, but Newt couldn’t lift his eyes from the darkness of the alley. Lips pushed into his own, rough and wet, biting at his lips, sucking at his jaw.

“Get this ridiculous thing off.” His coat was tugged down, momentarily locking his arms behind his back before hitting the sodden floor. “Quaint,” the mouth hissed between kisses, yanking on the bow tie to loosen it. The shirt was wrenched out of his trousers and ripped open. “Merlin, do you know how long I’ve been waiting to do this again? You’re so pretty.” Newt felt sea-sick as he was spun, his face digging into the brickwork. The heavy body behind him shook with laughter. With shame, Newt felt his wand slide from his waist band and jab him in the ribs. “What kind of a fucking wizard are you, Scamander?” The wand joined his clothes on the floor, and hands began to tug insistently at his trousers. “You never did stand up for yourself, only that ridiculous beast! And even then, you used your fists like a common muggle.” Rough hands on his shoulders twisted him around again, his cheek splitting open against the wall. “I can use my fists too, you brat!” the blond hissed, delivering a meaty punch to his jaw.

The next blow flew into Newt’s stomach. The air rushed out of his lungs, and he gasped deeply falling to his knees. He struggled to stand, his fingers scrabbling against the wet ground and his trousers binding his ankles. The sound of barking drifted through the pattering of the rain.

Atticus grinned down at him; for a moment, Newt felt sad to see his wild eyes, his swollen lips, his hair in disarray. Poor creature.

“I wasn’t going to do this here. I wasn’t even going to use that mouth. But maybe you’ve gotten better at it.”

The older wizard removed his belt quickly, looping it around Newt’s bony neck. “You look just like one of your damned beasts.” He let out a burst of laughter, before digging for his member with one hand. The other sunk into Newt’s hair and tugged him forward. Shivering, Newt couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth, jaw locking and teeth clenching. “Fucking bitch.” The hand moved forward to dig into the hollows of his cheeks, forcing his mouth wide. “Stick your tongue out like that fucking dog you were cuddling up to,” Atticus ordered.

Newt peered up, vision dancing as the sound of barking got louder. “No.”

With a sharp tug of the belt, his face slammed forward into the other man’s crotch and he whined trying to pull himself free. “I’m going to lock you up in Forster manor where nobody can find you, slut!” Newt was pulled back to his feet. One hand closed on his neck, while the other squeezed hard around his flaccid cock. “I’ll have you on your back every day you mewling whore. I’ll make you love me.” Atticus pulled his wand from its holster.

“I’ll never be yours,” Newt whispered. His eyes tracked the movement of the other man’s wand. Apparition, his mind supplied. The other man’s arm rose high, preparing to say the incantation. Newt brought his knee up fast and hard.

With a roar, the older man reeled back before throwing himself on top of Newt, crushing him against the cobbles. “No better than a fucking muggle whore,” he hissed, wrapping both hands around Newt’s slender neck.

Darkness gathered at the edges of Newt’s eyes, but as his vision failed, he heard barking. He heard a familiar voice roar, “Stupefy!”

\-----

Drugged, the bottle had been drugged. The Theseus Scamander he knew, though a rake, would not have passed out over a tavern table, surrounded by muggles, blind to his brother’s whereabouts.

The other bottle had not yet been emptied.

He snapped into action. “Prewitt. Wilkerson. We’ve been drugged. Do you have your antidotes?”

Wilkerson stared at him with a fuzzy gaze, while Prewitt’s mouth closed grimly. “Yes, sir.”

He turned to the rest of the transportation team. “Sort yourselves out and then Scamander. I need to find that bastard, Hewes.”

The Auror took his wand in hand, forcing his way passed No-Mags full of drink and their own ire. Blast the decrees; which of these unfortunate souls would remember a severe man brandishing a stick in the pub come the morning?

He took soft steps along the corridor towards the bathroom and opened the door. His gaze tracked across the tiled floor, past the urinals to the stalls. Silently, he snuck towards the two doors listening for occupants. Empty. Only the sound of a barking dog drifted through this porcelain chamber. The windows were high, small. There was no exit.

With urgency, he cast a spell to track magical signatures. Nothing. He growled. Where the hell had they gone? He stalked back out through the door and re-entered the bar area, scowling. His men seemed alert, and were helping Prewitt administer an antidote to the elder Scamander. He caught the eye of Leguziamo and they shared a firm nod. They would follow.

The door crashed open and a party of young men streamed in. Percival held the door and stepped out in the rain. Glancing around, he cast the tracking spell again. Soft lights swirled around him, drifting left and right, some dashing up and others back into the pub. Dammit. There had been magic here, much magic, but it could belong to some local witch or passing broomstick – he could not track these trails.

A tug on his leg pulled him from his thoughts and he looked down to find the brown and white bitch from the bar. She growled, tugging him down the street. He growled back, “Get off!” She leapt up at him and he felt the temptation to lash out. The dog barked and barked, running down the street before turning back towards him. “Shut up, you stupid beast!” The pet danced in circles, panicked. Again, she latched onto his trouser leg and pulled him down the street before letting go, sprinting to the edge of an alleyway and howling.

He approached the alley slowly, wand poised. The dog was silent, big brown eyes appraising the wizard, who listened intently. Suddenly, the sound of a scuffle reached him – a body hitting the ground, hissed threats.

Percival tensed and edged forward into the corridor of darkness. His eyes adjusted slowly and his grip tightened.

“Stupefy,” he roared and red light streaked through the black night.

The Auror dashed forward, checking his aim was true, as many years of training had taught him. The blond lay stunned on the grimy street, eyes closed and trousers open, his softening dick purple.

Percival turned away, crouching down and reaching out gently. The periwinkle coat was soaked through, muddied and cold. Instead, he shrugged out of his own leather overcoat, liberally spelled with repellents and warming charms. Newt’s limbs were long and pale, naked and bruised. Sniffing, the boy attempted to pull his trousers up.

“Stop,” Percival whispered, wrapping his coat around the other wizard.

Newt scooted back, covering his bare bottom with the fabric and gathering it to cover his front. Scraped knees, bruised wrists, neck mottled, hand prints on his hips, his shoulders, scraped cheek, bleeding lips. Every injury, every slight was catalogued professionally. “Newt.”

“Thank- Thank you, Percy,” Newt whispered. The dog, wet and smelling so, had followed Percival and now curled up in Newt’s lap. “I didn’t- I don’t want him.”

Some cold part of the Auror broke. “I know. Merlin, I know that, Newt. What he was doing- This wasn’t some-” He broke off. “He attacked you.” Newt was nodding. “It wasn’t the first time, was it?”

“Newt!” A yell from the street startled them both. Percival’s wand hand flew up and he felt Newt grab at his back, before recognising the voice.

“Thee,” Newt sobbed.

The other Auror looked terrible. His eyes wild, his clothes in disarray. He skidded down the alleyway and onto his knees. “What the fuck? What happened, Newt?” His hands were patting all over his brother’s face, his hair, to the collar of the coat, which he began to open up. Percival slapped his hands away. Turning angrily to face Percival, Theseus’ gaze scattered past to the stupefied blond lying in the rain. With a growl, he was on him, slamming his fists down into an unconscious face.

“Thee, please! Please stop,” gasped Newt. His hands reached up. “I need you, please.” The dog barked.

Knees wet in the rain, Theseus clambered back and gathered his brother, tugging the coat closer around his naked form, his eyes shooting between Percival, Hewes and the men approaching them.

“Take this man to the authorities,” Percival hissed to his British counterparts.

“My office,” Theseus added, sombrely.

“Boss?”

“Just go,” Percival replied to the unasked question. They went, taking the body with them.

“Let’s get you home,” Theseus whispered. He stood, lifting his brother – Percival noted – the No-Mag way. “Our home,” he clarified, glancing at Percival. Within a wave of a wand they were gone.

Percival glanced down at the perplexed dog, at the bloody rainwater. He reached down to pick up the coat. Newt’s coat. Thinking hard, he recalled an address on a letterhead, and waved his wand.

\----

Theseus had helped him into the shower and watched him as he stood beneath the water in his underclothes, eyes tracking the hand marks on his hips, the bite on his neck.

“That’s enough, little brother,” he had whispered, turning the hot water off and wrapping a huge, soft towel around his reddened skin. Newt had perched on the edge of the bath tub, while Theseus patted gently over his body, drying him. Brown eyes full of tears stared up into his face. “Is this ok?”

The younger man nodded and, once dry, stepped into the pyjamas that Theseus held out, accepting a blanket before they stumbled together into Newt’s childhood bedroom.

Percival stood there, tense, a stuffed owl gripped tight. “Priscilla,” Newt explained, following Theseus’ cue and sitting on the bed.

Theseus himself tracked his old friend’s movements as he approached the foot of the bed and sat. Newt meanwhile imagined he could read their minds, the burning questions they engineered and discarded: Are you alright? Has this happened before? When did it start? Why you?

He plucked Priscilla from the bed and clutched her. “My creatures?”

“I’ve sent a letter to Queenie asking her to keep an eye on them a few days more,” Percival explained. “She adores them, they’ll be fine.”

Newt nodded and stroked the padded beak.

“I don’t know why he chose me, and I don’t know why he was there tonight, but it has happened before.” Theseus murmured and shuffled closer to Newt, his hands petting uncontrollably. Percival, he noticed, nodded once. “It, er, I can’t remember when Atticus started coming to the house, I was young I suppose, hadn’t gone to Hogwarts. I wasn’t, well, I wasn’t really used to many humans. I had you, Thee, and Mother, but mostly it was the animals and the elves.” He turned to look at his brother.

“My birthday party. The year I turned 13,” Theseus informed him. “That was the first time that bastard came here.”

Newt nodded again. “Then I was 9.” Theseus sobbed. “Nothing happened, Thee. Not then. We would just talk. I had my first bowtruckle, Roger, and Atticus said he was interested. He came over a lot that summer, remember? Mother was visiting Father in the city, and you…“ Newt trailed off.

“I started drinking.”  
“Yeah. You would both drink in Father’s study, but you- You would pass out and he wouldn’t.” Newt burned with guilt. “It’s not your fault.”

“He was drugging you,” Percival supplied.

“What?”  
“The liquor in the pub, it had been tampered with. I sincerely doubt it was the first time.”

“Oh,” whispered Newt. “That explains it. You never woke up.”

Theseus shuddered. “When- When did he…“

“The summer after my Third Year, the summer you were leaving,” Newt said.

“The kneasle?” Percival muttered.

Theseus’ head whipped up. “Oh, Merlin. The fight.”

Newt nodded miserably. “He- Atticus he- touched me a few times that summer.”

“He raped you,” Percival said.

Newt cringed, turning into his brother’s side. “Yes, he- Yes, forced me that summer. He had me, um, over the desk in Father’s study one night. You were in the parlour, Thee. It hurt- He was being so rough, and I was crying. Annabelle heard and came to investigate. She climbed up the desk leg and started tapping my face, trying to help me, but Atticus pushed her off onto the floor. I was worried and tried to turn around, but he pushed me down and it hurt so much. I- I cried out. Annabelle, she- she must have been so worried,” Newt was sobbing. “She bit down on his ankle. He got off me and he- he kicked her!” His slender fingers dug into the bird in his hands. “I screamed at him, I kicked his ankles and he fell over. I was- I was just so angry. I kept hitting him, and then he pushed me off and punched me. His leg was bleeding. Badly- all over the carpet. He stormed out and I carried Annabelle down to the parlour and- and I waited.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Newt?” Theseus, his eyes red, covered the hands holding Priscilla. “I would have killed him.”

“I didn’t want that, Thee. I wanted him out of our lives, and your letter did that. The rest doesn’t matter.”

Percival straightened. “It does. It does matter. You won’t have to testify, but we will, and he’ll go to prison.”

“To Azkaban,” Theseus said, nodding.

“I don’t want to know anything about it,” Newt insisted. “The last few months, living with Percy, I’ve thought about him less and less. I think the space has been- It has helped. I’ll come back soon,” he assured his landlord.

Theseus’ eyes widened. “You think I’m going to let you live with Graves now?”

Percival felt panic rock through him. “New York is his home now, Scamander. He has friends, beasts, a job.”

“Newt! Can’t you see this man- this pervert- wants to fuck you too?”

The youngest man curled away, his eyes wide, his head shaking. “No, no, that’s not true.”

The Director felt his heart plummet. “I’ll never hurt you, Newt, you must believe me. But-“ He locked eyes with the shaking boy. “I _am_ in love with you. I want to spend my life with you. If you'll have me.”


End file.
